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She turned to Lynley and found him watching her.

“You’ve been busy,” he said, his voice low and a bit unsteady.

“You have no idea.” She crossed to stand in front of him, her skirts against his knees, looking down on the tousled hair, the dark shadow of his beard against the pallor of his skin, and the furrow of pain between his brows.

“A number of things puzzle me,” he said.

“You’re surprised to see me here?”

“With Goldsworthy.”

“Ah,” she said. “Your spymaster did need some persuading.”

“No doubt you’ll explain it all to me.” She heard the weariness in his voice.

“I will, my love,” she said, “but now, we really must get you out of these clothes.”

A light flared in his dark eyes. With his good hand, he pulled Emily to stand between his knees, closing them against her legs to hold her in place. His shirt collar gaped open above the black silk of his waistcoat.

“What did you do with your neckcloth?” she asked. She reached for the top button of his waistcoat and began to work the tiny buttons down his chest.

“Stuffed it over the bullet hole.” With his good hand he indicated a bulge in his right sleeve.

“Very wise,” she said, releasing the last button of his waistcoat and gently spreading it open over the fine lawn shirt. “Can you lift your left arm?”

He complied with a grin, and she pulled his coat sleeve up until he could free his arm.

“Lean forward,” she ordered.

He did, pressing his forehead into the hollow of her throat where the lace collar dipped, breathing against her skin. For a moment they leaned against each other, like spent runners catching a ragged breath. She peeled the close-fitting coat from his back until only the right sleeve remained. He inhaled sharply.

“This part may hurt,” she said, easing the shirt off his shoulder. His eyes closed briefly, and then opened as she slid the coat over the injured arm. The bloodied neckcloth tumbled free, and Emily caught it.

His lawn shirt stuck to his arm. Blood had spilled and stained the shirt from a small hole no bigger than Emily’s thumb, an angry circle of singed black fibers. A similar hole marked the bullet’s exit.

“Wilde promised he would send a doctor from the next inn,” she told him, studying the way the shirt stuck to his flesh.

“How long do you think we have?” he asked.

The question sent a flash of heat through her. At least Lynley would not die of a chill. She took a steadying breath and gently pulled free of his legs. Spreading his ruined coat on the floor, she stepped onto it, lifted her skirts and reached for the ties on her petticoats.

He grinned. “This is promising,” he said.

She laughed. “I’m just being practical.”

“I’m not allowed to hope for more?” he asked, one brow raised.

“Clean bandages,” she said, giving a little shimmy and letting her petticoats settle onto his coat. She stepped out of them and whisked them up onto the other chair. She managed after several tries to tear a strip of cloth. She poured hot water from the kettle into one of the chipped cups and soaked her makeshift bandage, then wrapped the wet strip around his arm.

“I should have had you with me,” he confessed.

“I did think we were partners,” she said.

“I was strongly opposed to Barksted’s bullyboys or anyone else putting hands on you again.”

“I feel quite the same way about Barksted’s henchmen banging you up. This,” she said, waving a hand vaguely over his person, “belongs to me.” In time she would kiss every inch of him.

“I can make it up to you,” he said.